A dish that quietly stole attention at 'Ladakhi Chef' Jigmet Mingur’s recent Ladakh on a Plate showcase at The Leela Palace, New Delhi, was the Silk Route Yarkhandi pulao, or rice simmered in mutton, mutton fat, dried fruits and carrots—with a raita of wild herbs. In a high-altitude cold desert where farming is limited and water scarce, rice feels almost out of place, if not forced.
The phrase Silk Route, however, peels back the layers of both the dish and Ladakhi cuisine itself, shaped by a harsh climate but also the caravans that once connected the region to Central Asia. Yarkhandi, itself, traces its roots to Yarkand in Xinjiang, China.
Its desert climate, however—with biting cold, harsh summers, and low rainfall—shapes the cuisine profoundly. While summer brings a short burst of fresh produce, winter relies on dehydrated vegetables, stored grains, and fermented breads. With horticulture limited, wild edible plants and hardy mountain herbs fill the gaps. Barley, buckwheat, wild chives, winter peas and capers form the backbone, and there’s a copious use of fat.
“The climate demands it. We need fat to keep warm,” says chef Jigmet Mingur. A monk-turned-chef, he now runs Tsam Khang, a 10-seater restaurant in Ladakh.
“I do my own farming there, and the menu depends entirely on what grows in the garden and what we can forage nearby."
At the pop-up, he begins the eight-course meal with a warm cup of khunak, salted green tea, followed by khambir, a fermented bread, served with skotse, a butter infused with wild chives. Then arrived a warm bowl of nyamthuk—roasted barley soup with dried demo cheese and black winter peas.
Barley is a key ingredient, says the chef.
“At lower altitudes, where wheat grows, you see more breads and baked preparations. At higher altitudes, where barley grows better, you see more stews and soups, such as nyamthuk.” Along with barley soup and flour, it’s also brewed into the local Chhang.
Ladakhi ingredients extended to the bar menu, as well, with apricot honey, buckwheat honey, and sea buckthorn pulp infused into neatly crafted cocktails.
Next came the heartier courses: mok mok, Ladakhi dumplings and gyuma sausages. The meal closed on a gentler note with sea buckthorn ice cream paired with apricots.
According to chef Jigmet, Ladakh is often flattened into the broader idea of the Himalayas.
“I wanted to show that Ladakh belongs to the Trans-Himalayan region: its flavours are distinct, milder, more restrained.”
He argues that the cuisine receives far less visibility than its Kashmiri or Jammu counterparts because of the region’s small population. “Fewer people means less representation and less documentation.”
Long shaped by its climate, Ladakhi cuisine now faces a new pressure: climate change.
“We traditionally relied on wild herbs,” says Jigmet. “But with unusual rainfall patterns, the ecology is shifting. The mountains we forage in are not the same. Different herbs are appearing. Cultivation zones are moving. Even the taste of vegetables has altered slightly.”
It is crucial to take note of this, as in the ecologically-fragile Ladakh, even small changes matter.
